


Dirty Jobs

by salamanderinspace



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015), Magic Mike (2012), Magic Mike (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Anal Sex, Body Modification, Condoms, Crossover, Discipline, Facials, Left-Handed Screwdriver Bit, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, Sex Work, Smut, Strippers & Strip Clubs, WiseAss, puns, so many puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 10:43:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5494286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamanderinspace/pseuds/salamanderinspace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caine Wise is a hunter.  A job hunter.</p><p>--</p><p>"Caine Wise stared pointedly at a mahogany desk.  It was a fitting piece of furniture for the back office of a Tampa strip club: polished, dark finish, very masculine.  It matched the black mahogany doors and heavy, velvet curtains.  All this stood in stark contrast to the marble statuary haunting corners of the room.  For classical, heroic male nudes, these were unusually...frisky.  Caine kept his eyes fixed on the desk."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Jobs

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Magic Mike Crossover AU where Titus is Dallas and Caine Wise is a stripper. I blame the extreme kinkiness on structure which, not being a smut writer, I tried to mimic from other fic as best I could. The puns, unfortunately, I must take full credit for.
> 
> My most profound thanks to marmolita for betareading. This story is now %150 less gunshy.
> 
> I wrote this for Vablatsky's prompt for the 2015 Jupiter Ascending Secret Santa Gift Exchange. The prompt was "yes smut, Magic Mike crossover."

Caine Wise stared pointedly at a mahogany desk. It was a fitting piece of furniture for the back office of a Tampa strip club: polished, dark finish, very masculine. It matched the black mahogany doors and heavy, velvet curtains. All this stood in stark contrast to the marble statuary haunting corners of the room. For classical, heroic male nudes, these were unusually...frisky. Caine kept his eyes fixed on the desk. 

Minutes ticked by. The only sound was the rhythmic clicking of a grandfather clock, hands approaching five-thirty: still early. The club wasn't open yet. Caine waited patiently for the return of the bartender who'd let him in. He'd promised to rustle up a job application; that had been almost twenty minutes ago. Caine took a deep breath. The office smelled like cologne and wood-polish. There was something else underneath, something rich. Caine breathed through his mouth for awhile.

When the door opened, it was not the bartender. It was a young man. Slicked back hair hit the kid's shoulders; plucked eyebrows framed a pretty face. This kid matched Caine's expectations for Strip Club Owner to a T: rich, sexy, slimey, unashamed. He had hazel-green eyes and a lean, tight frame. He was also the spitting image of the chiselled sculptures positioned around and above them. Caine felt two things, simultaneously: the desire to laugh, and the desire to pick a fight. 

"Good evening. Are you the owner?" Caine asked. The self-styled Adonis didn't answer. He settled slowly into a leather high-back positioned behind the desk; he expressed no discomfort at the pantheon of pornographic statues emblazoned with his own face. Resting two hands behind his head, he leaned back and looked Caine up and down. His gaze lingered, as if he had all the time in the world, and he meant to savor it. The statues continued to pose provocatively. The grandfather clock decorated the silence with a chime.

Caine felt suddenly warm. The instinct to laugh was gone, but the desire to fight was building. He didn't know where it came from, his aggression, but it wouldn't be the first time a good-looking rich guy brought it out in him. Maybe it was the smug little smile on the stranger's face; Caine had an overwhelming urge to leapfrog the desk, knock over the marble effigies, and grab the milksop by his pretty silk collar. _And maybe roll around with him a little._ Instead, Caine politely repeated his inquiry. "Excuse me. Are you in charge here?"

The young man licked his lips, as if they were dry. "Would you like that? If I were to be in charge of you?" 

Caine practically had to repress a growl. _This guy has some nerve._ The blunt remark would've been too much, too soon, if not for the legitimizing benefits of an aristocratic British accent -- which Caine found unbearably hot. Then something clicked: the statues, the clumsy come-on, the kid's sleazy suit. _He's trying to make things uncomfortable. Testing me._

Caine was determined to pass the test. "Yes, sir. I'm here for a job."

"Oh I can think of a _job_ I would like to give you." The entendre couldn't have been more blunt, or more suggestively delivered. The stranger reclined so far that the leather chair creaked and groaned. His pants pulled tight over the _very_ visible outline of his package. Caine felt a rush of blood go south.

 _Not now,_ Caine thought. _Focus_. He was usually pretty comfortable with sex -- comfortable enough that he'd chosen to apply for a job as a male "adult entertainer." An ad for the gig offered good money and he thought, _what the hell_. It wasn't his dream job but steady employment was a condition of his parole. He tried hard to think of a professional way to say that he needed to work on-the-books. "Honestly, sir, I'll do any job you like, as long as I get a paystub and a W2." Then, because he simply couldn't help it, he heard himself mutter: "I'm not looking to get jerked around." Caine immediately regretted the comment. "Sir," he added.

The young man raised a brow. He seemed to find Caine's manners amusing.

"Well, you may have come to the wrong place. This is an adult entertainment venue. We do plenty of..." he waved a hand carelessly, "...jerking around, here."

Caine exhaled. His head filled with images of the young libertine, in various states of undress, _jerking_ himself. Trying hard not to think of it, Caine adjusted his posture to stand a little straighter. No bullshit punster would be getting under _his_ skin. "Yes sir, that's not a problem. I just meant, I'm looking for an honest day's work, sir."

"Please. Call me Titus."

"Yes sir, Titus," Caine obliged. "Caine Wise." 

Titus scanned Caine with a look that was meticulously calculating. Finally, he sighed, and composed himself into a theatrical pout. "You'll forgive me, Mr. Wise, but what brings you to the industry? I mean, you're certainly well-suited..." The young man's heavy-lidded gaze drifted over Caine's large frame, his broad shoulders, and, finally, his tattoos. "By the looks of it, you're ex-military, and I'm guessing you've fallen a long way down to end up here. I just want to make sure it wasn't because you possess...how can I put it? A short fuse."

Now Caine bit down hard. He was prepared to prove he could keep himself in check (whether Titus appealed to his dick or to his temper.) He was not, however, prepared to talk about the events leading up to his discharge. Yes, there'd been a fight. Yes, his C.O. tried to protect him, and got himself punished for it. Caine's agitation toward Titus was replaced by a stab of shame; he decided to try evasion. Chin up, straight faced, he replied: "Nothing short about my fuse, sir. Nothing short about me."

To Caine's relief, Titus laughed. "I see. Very well." Standing up in his chair, Titus smoothed his jacket and then folded his arms expectantly. "In truth I am always looking for new dancers. Tell me why I should hire you."

Caine swallowed. His mission now was to prove himself. Determined to keep the interview on the right track, he took a deep breath and, with one hand, pulled off his hat. He tossed it aside. 

"Pointed ears?" Titus moved eagerly around his desk to get a better look at Caine's body modification. The desk chair let out a creaky sigh of leather; Titus moved to the sound as if it were music. "Very nice, Mr. Wise. Surgical shaping is _all the rage,_ as they say, with the body mod community. Anything else?"

Caine grinned, baring two tiny, elegantly pointed fangs.

"My my, grandma," Titus cooed, "what big teeth you have. You've had them filed, I suppose? Impressive..." Caine could feel Titus' eyes lingering on his mouth, lips, tongue. "I'm afraid, however, I'll need to see more."

Caine hesitated. Undressing was going to be part of the deal, he knew that. He didn't even mind it. He just hadn't anticipated this lecherous pretty boy grading him like a piece of meat. 

And he certainly hadn't expected to be so damn aroused by that.

Caine blinked one slow blink and opened his eyes with a customer service smile glued to his face. He slowly peeled off his shirt.

Titus tilted his head and squinted, as if admiring a work of art. "Now we're getting somewhere." He bit his lip and looked, for all the world, as if he were contemplating sketching a map of Caine's torso. "You aren't squeamish over nudity, then, I trust?"

"No offense, sir, but I've seen some things. Nudity doesn't bother me."

"What _does_ bother you?"

Caine considered this. He was certain Titus was asking about his boundaries. The truth was, Caine wasn't sure he had any. "It bothers me...to think I might not get this job. I just want to earn my shot, sir. I'll do anything."

Titus' lips curled just a bit, around the edges. Caine couldn't tell if the little smirk masked amusement, disdain, or something else. "Please," Titus urged, "as I said: there is no need to call me sir." Titus approached Caine, close enough to kiss. "You needn't do _'anything,'_ Mr. Wise. Only what you _want_ to do. Do you want to dance in my club? If so, the job is yours."

The offer came as a surprise. Titus seemed like the type to press any advantage. He'd been trying to push Caine's buttons, and Caine was expecting more, maybe even something physical. _Expecting, or fantasizing?_ "I want..." What did Caine want again? He could see the shorter man's shape under his sheer suit and leather pants. Slender, fit, muscular. Caine struggled to remember why he was there. "I just want to make money."

"Is that all?"

Caine swallowed. "That's all."

"Then I think we can come to an arrangement." Titus extended his hand. Caine was always a little awkward with handshakes. He grasped Titus' hand to give it a firm squeeze but held it for a moment to long. Suddenly, the touch was full of potential. Titus drew the tip of his thumb gently over Caine's knuckle, circling it suggestively.

"I do have some scars," Caine said. His voice came out raspy and low. "That a problem?"

"Where, and what sort?"

"Neck. Tattoo removal."

Titus slid his left hand over Caine's bare chest and around his neck. Caine felt his nipples tighten with anticipation. Suave fingers, caressing the hollow of Caine's throat, found an old brand.

"Do you have them anywhere else?"

"My back."

Titus' hands moved down Caine's back, lightly tracing the rough spots of skin on Caine's shoulder blades. One hand crept lower, to Caine's waist. Then a little lower.

"Any down here?"

"No," Caine breathed. His pulse quickened. "You're welcome to check."

Titus did check. He slipped two fingers into the elastic of Caine's waistband, tilting his chin to peer down the cut of Caine's abdomen. Eyebrows were raised.

"Here," Caine said. "I'll help." Caine undid his pants and they fell to his ankles. Stepping out of the wreath of fabric, he kicked aside his shoes. Lastly, he pushed his hands into the elastic of his briefs and chased the cotton down his own thick, hard thighs and calves. Standing naked, arousal evident, Caine awaited Titus' final judgment. "Like what you see?"

Titus' eyes were wide, his lips dry. Caine noticed (with triumph) that the young entrepreneur was actually blushing. "Very much indeed."

"Do you want me to dance now, Titus?" 

"A tempting offer," Titus conceded. He took a deep breath and pried his gaze away from Caine's body. "Yet, as enjoyable as it might be, it is not my duty to train new dancers. You see, I am the manager here. My brother and sister co-own but they prefer not to dirty their hands." Caine was certain he saw Titus' fingers twitch, just a little, as if these words reminded him that he were very eager to get his own hands dirty. "Well. We must all play our roles and do our work. The other dancers can help you learn the choreography," Titus continued. Reclaiming a predatory smile, he seemed to regain some measure of composure. Then, with one last, long glance at Caine, Titus returned to his seat. The leather squeaked anxiously. "Be here tomorrow, promptly at 5:00."

Caine felt a rush of triumph - and just a little disappointment. Caine considered making a move, attempting to ride the sexual tension in the room to some kind of satisfaction. He decided against it. First, he really needed the job. Second, there was something about Titus, about the way he posed and glided and grinned that made the heat in the room feel...contrived. Had it really all been a test? A job interview? All bark and no bite? Was the kid just feeling for weak spots, like a good C.O. should?

"Sure thing," Caine replied. "I'll be here tomorrow. Ready to work." He took his time getting dressed: boots, then tight briefs and baggy drawstring pants. Titus watched like a cat, tracking a bird at the window. Caine liked the feeling; he felt like he had wings.

Caine slung his shirt over one shoulder. On his way out, he spared a look back at the young manager. There was no way to differentiate the lust in his eyes from the dozen marble statues, all wearing identical expressions of desire, all fixed in stone.

 

\--------

 

"Come on in and meet the guys!" The youngest stripper at Club Xquisite was giving Caine a hasty tour. "I'm Ken, this is Tito, that's Big Dick Ritchie. He can get you set up, show you the ropes."

"Aww, come on man," Ritchie protested. "This new guy? He's scruffy. Looks like a fuckin' werewolf." Ritchie examined Caine's bristling facial hair and untidy cut. "You're gonna have to shave, man."

Caine had arrived at the club early that evening to prepare for his first night as a dancer. He'd filled out new hire paperwork, shook hands with the staff (the bartenders, Vladdie and Famulus, both seemed highly untrustworthy) and now he was getting Stripper 101 from the establishment's three stage veterans.

"Actually, I was hoping to go with the werewolf thing," Caine said. He flashed his pointed ears and teeth.

"Whoa man!" Ken exclaimed. "Far out. I can totally dig that! Pass me the name of your body mod guy!"

Tito seconded. "You should definitely do a werewolf set, werewolf song. We could get you some claws...Ritchie could play your victim..."

"Now hold on," Ritche protested. Caine couldn't help but notice he was a tall guy, built out, kind of surly. "I ain't nobody's victim. Plus, newbie's gotta pay his dues."

"Not a problem," Caine said. "I can clean, work the door--" 

"Nah I ain't talkin' about that." Ritchie interjected. He loomed over Caine, a little too close, like a guy trying to intimidate. "If you want to be on the team, you've got to help us out, man."

"Help you out how?"

"Get us off."

Caine froze. Was this another test? For a second he was speechless. The three male strippers all looked at him with palpable eagerness. "Now?"

Tito and Ken exchanged looks. "We all did it, man," Tito said. "You gotta be our fuck toy."

Ritchie nodded. "Anything we want."

"All three of you?"

"We take turns," Ken clarified.

Caine took a breath. He'd heard of this kind of hazing in the barracks; it never happened to him, personally, but he'd thought about it once or twice while jacking off. Caine always enjoyed bottoming--only ever one guy at a time, granted, but he'd always imagined he would rise to the occasion. "Alright. I will." He began to undo his fly.

"Holy shit!" A chorus of repressed giggles interrupted the sound of Caine's zipper. Caine looked up to see Ken covering his face, turning bright red. Tito and Ritchie were wide-eyed, laughing into their shirts. 

"Dude, we were joking with you," Ritchie said. "But like, way to roll with it?"

"Yeah, way to be chill man," said Ken, patting Caine on the back.

"He was gonna do it, too!" Tito exclaimed. "You're a good guy, bro. Welcome."

"Here man, do some shots with us," Ritchie offered. "We'll help you learn the group routine."

Caine flashed a good-natured smile. He was relieved that he'd passed the test. Well, mostly. A part of him remained somewhat _unrelieved._ Three shots of tequila later he discreetly managed to redo his fly.

 

\--------

 

Even densely packed with high-heeled, body-glittered women, half-lit by basement-quality fluorescents, the club was a versatile presentation space. Caine's debut performance depended on a number of props. A fog machine drooled out wisps of heavy mist, filling the cardboard shadows with wobbly texture. Various objects had been procured to modify lighting: pine tree branches, paper moons. Caine stood on the small, dark stage, a fantasy version of himself. The light was behind him. Grey fur trim on a zip-up denim vest became a wolfish mane in silhouette. His hands became paws in fingerless gloves. Sound effects played on the loud speaker: a crash, crash, crash of tree branches breaking. Footsteps on snow. A mournful howl. A bloodcurdling scream.

There was no time to be self-conscious about pageantry. Caine had a job to do. The lights came up and the music started: the opening riff to a rock'n'roll song. Caine stomped to the end of the runway and dropped to his knees. He ripped off the denim vest to reveal a broad, powerful body. The girls went wild. They howled. He howled. 

Clothes came off, piece by piece. He completed the steps just as he'd practiced: pop, lock, spin, slide. A solid chunk of his evening (before doors) had gone toward training drills with the guys. He'd learned the moves and he'd learned fast. "Your technique is great," Ritchie had said, "but you gotta slow down, relax. Enjoy the response from the crowd." 

Caine attempted to follow this advice. He cast his eyes down to meet a horde of transfixed women; some squealing with delight, others waving dollar bills. It only made him feel nervous. Looking around for inspiration, he found a familiar face at a table near the far side of the stage. _Titus._ The handsome manager was seated with an elegant, brunette woman just a bit older than himself. Caine found her attractive--though not quite as pretty as Titus. He started working his way over to them.

Caine saw that Titus and the woman were deep in some sort of conversation. Titus was leaning close against her ear to be heard over the music; he talked into her neck, snaking a hand over her ribs. Whatever he said, it caused her to cackle. Caine felt overcome by an impulse to draw Titus' attention onto him. Soon clad in nothing but a G-string and boots, Caine crawled toward Titus' table. _Time to put on a show._ He pulled an eager volunteer up on stage--a young coed, petite on teetering heels. The girl shrieked ecstatically while Caine twerked, thrusted, and pressed his thick thighs around her neck. Caine glanced at Titus and his companion. No reaction.

Caine couldn't believe it, but Titus wasn't even watching. It pissed him off. He felt the anger quicken his blood, and he danced faster, now practically simulating sex with the girl from the audience. Titus stopped his chit-chat mid-sentence to catch a look. _Victory!_ thought Caine, with a rush of confidence. Unexpectedly, the rush went straight to his cock. Caine halted. He took the opportunity to gently escort the dumb-struck girl back to her seat. 

Cash now overflowing from his bulging G-string, Caine stuffed the extra bills into his boots and turned toward Titus with a renewed sense of purpose. The song was almost over. Caine strode right up to the brunette woman, Titus' companion, and tapped her on the shoulder. As she met his eyes, he ran one hand sensually down his sculpted abs, and with other, waggled a provocative "come hither" finger. 

She paled. "Oh, I say," she said, pulling a ten out of her decolletage. "Splendid. Nicely done." 

Titus laughed. It was a real laugh, a true laugh: one that filled and transformed his features like golden sunlight. "Mr. Wise," he said, "when you've finished, I'll see you in my office."

Then the song was done. Caine had to be on stage for the hot seat, which featured mandatory one-on-one lap dances. A steady and diverse stream of women, reeking of lust and perfume, paid Caine to bounce in their laps, busts, faces. His hips mashed and gyrated. His hands grasped and touched. He couldn't help but absorb some of the customers' excitement; friction was friction, after all, and he was getting pretty riled.

Ritchie was working the seat next to him. "Hey nice job, newbie," the seasoned stripper shouted, over the swell of music and feminine squealing. Caine couldn't answer; he had no breath left. When the last client was done, he planted a kiss on her cheek, collected payment, and then headed for the bar. 

"What can I get ya?" asked Vladdie, the bartender on duty. Caine had actually met him the previous evening; he'd been the one to unlock the door. He came off as a bit of a tool. 

"A beer and a glass of water." 

"Sure thing, but don't hang around too long. Titus is looking for ya."

Caine took a quick swig to rehydrate. He was worked up on an adrenaline high: heart racing, skin slick with sweat, cock needlessly hard and ready. He needed a minute to cool down, but he knew that if he sat too long, Vladdie would run and tattle to the boss.

"Thanks man," he told the barkeep, "I'll head on back."

Once again, Caine found himself in the eyeline of a whorehouse worth of marble statuary, each and every one resembling his employer. For the first time, he felt nervous wearing just a G-string and boots. Titus stood behind the desk, leaning on his palms. His designer shirt gaped provocatively at the collar. "First of all, excellent work tonight," Titus spoke. "Truly. My sister Kalique was well-pleased."

It took Caine a second to connect 'sister' with Titus' companion. "I'm very glad. I can only hope to improve with each performance."

"My hope as well." Titus sized up Caine with a gleam in his eye. He smiled, straightening up and clasping his hands together. "In fact, I have a plan to ensure that is the case. Because even though you were..." Titus hesitated, tasting the words in his mouth, "positively fierce this evening, I must reprimand you on a few small details." 

Caine's disappointment at being called in for a critique was significantly reduced by the fact that Titus would be doing the scolding personally. "I thought it wasn't your job to train new dancers?"

"I am tasked with the rather...sticky business of upholding the rules," Titus said. "I'm afraid you are a rule breaker, Mr. Wise."

"What rules did I break?"

"Well, I can't have my dancers coming over to my table and disturbing my conversations. I must warn you, Mr. Wise, you _are_ going to require better restraint than that."

Caine felt himself flush. He was suddenly embarrassed by how badly he'd wanted Titus to look at him, to enjoy his act. "I'm so sorry. It won't happen again." The young manager was looking down at Caine through long eyelashes: smiling, smug and self-assured. _Could he really be mad about me disturbing him? Is this another game?_ Titus was just too pretty, too golden, too chiselled. There was no way to tell what he was thinking; Caine could only hope to crack his shiny shell. "Maybe you can teach me to restrain myself," Caine suggested.

Pink lips curled into a sinister grin. "Is that really what you'd like, Mr. Wise? I can be quite a merciless teacher." Something about this comment (and the grin accompanying it) were just like the previous day: hollow, artificial. Performed.

"All due respect," Caine said, "I'm not sure I believe you."

This seemed to genuinely amuse Titus. "Oh no?"

"No." It was Caine's turn to plant his hands aggressively on the hardwood, to stare Titus in the eye. "Prove it. Show me no mercy."

The veneer crumbled. The clouds cleared from behind Titus' eyes. For the first time, Caine saw behind them. There was only darkness. "Bend over," Titus said, softly, and with absolute conviction.

Caine's heart thundered. He felt his breath catch. He knew a line was about to be crossed. This was no longer a game of chicken; it was happening, and if he started something with his boss, it might put his new job in jeopardy. "Aren't...aren't there rules about touching?" he asked, tentatively. Like, _are you sure?_

"For the customers, certainly, there are rules..." Titus answered. He circled the desk and stood to Caine's right, so close that Caine's erection strained painfully against the little G-string. "Not for us. Now bend the fuck over."

Caine did as what he was told. He bent over the desk.

"Very good, Mr. Wise..." Titus moved behind Caine and started touching him. Soft, graceful fingers found the sensitive skin where Caine's ass met his thigh, from whence they travelled on little forays of exploration, circling, stroking, probing. Caine was still revved up from dancing; every tentative contact sent jolts of electricity through his body. "Very, _very_ good." Caine felt the young man's body brush against his back, Titus' excitement throbbing through a fine layer of fabric. "Do you want me to keep going?" 

"Yes, sir!" Caine barked. In his enthusiasm, he'd forgotten. "I mean, yes, Titus."

"I suppose we can go back to 'sir,' just for now." Titus straightened up, letting one hand remain on Caine's ass (and giving it a little squeeze.) "Wonderful. Now, I'd like to work with you on your control."

"My control, sir?"

Caine heard the sound of Titus' belt unbuckling. "Yes. I want you to control yourself. I want you to stay right in that position and don't move and don't speak, no matter what I do to you. Is that alright?"

"Yes, sir."

Titus peeled the G-string off, following it down Caine's calves with a gentle caress. He then retrieved something from the desk drawer; Caine couldn't be sure what, and he didn't want to move his head to look. Then Titus was behind him again. Fortunately, Caine had excellent hearing. He heard the cap on a tube of lubricant snap open.

"Now, stay still," Titus ordered. He spread Caine apart. Caine could only imagine Titus' exquisite features, intent, focusing, as he pressed a finger into the exposed cleft. Caine felt himself resist a little; he tried to relax. Titus stroked him, in and out, in and out, pushing a little deeper and finally working in a second finger.

"You're tight, Mr. Wise. I may have to reprimand you more often."

Caine couldn't help himself. The comment sent a shudder through him. His hips instinctively bucked toward the desk.

"No, no. That won't do at all. You're much too excitable," Titus sighed. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to punish you."

"Yes, sir." Caine heard the sound of a little package being opened. Condom wrapper.

"Bend your knees a bit. That's it. Now, keep your head down and hold to the desk. Don't move." The lube had to be some kind of professional grade. Titus was practiced at penetration; Caine heard himself whimper as Titus slipped in without difficulty. Within seconds, Titus was pushing in to the hilt, hands gripping Caine's hips to drive deeper. Then they were in rhythm with each other: pumping, grunting, breathing fast. Titus knew just how to stimulate, but he was tenacious, unforgiving. Caine's eyes watered at the overwhelming sensations. Every inch of him was screaming, pleasure and fire radiating to every nerve in his body. Caine could feel Titus losing himself, desperately speeding faster.

"Do you like that, you _mutt?_ " Titus asked, accent thick and heavy.

"Yes, sir," Caine replied. He was approaching a critical point. He needed more. "May I please touch myself?"

"Oh no, Mr. Wise. As you recall, I promised no mercy," Titus said. A few more quick, hard thrusts, and Caine felt Titus twitch, spasm, pull away. Caine was left bent over, raw and unsatisfied. He desperately wished Titus would allow him to turn around. Then Caine saw Titus' jacket, shirt, and pants, in that order, tossed over him to drape on the leather chair. 

"Yesterday, you told me you wanted to earn your shot," Titus reminisced. There was a breathy momentum to his oration, a near giddiness. "Well, you've earned it. Stand up and turn around, Mr. Wise." When Caine did as instructed, he met the flesh embodiment of perfection. Titus was kneeling before him, the light dancing over every part of his sinewy form, from tawny hair to limp, spent dick. "Now," Titus said, "let's get you to _shoot._ " He placed one hand on the outside of each of Caine's thighs and opened his mouth wide. Caine could hardly believe what Titus was allowing him to do. He didn't hesitate. He masturbated frantically over Titus' mouth, touching the head of his cock to Titus's lips on each stroke. He wanted nothing more than to jam his cock in the naked boy's filthy, teasing mouth. So he did. Titus gagged at first, a little startled, then his eyes filled with storms of laughter. 

"Tap me if it's too much," Caine said, grabbing a fistful of hair to pull. "I want you so bad...I might get a little rough. Is that ok?" Titus gave a slight nod and flicked his tongue over Caine's tip. He was completely game.

Caine put one hand on Titus' jaw and began guiding him. Channeling pent up need, he was soon fucking Titus' mouth and throat with reckless abandon. They couldn't keep it going for long; Caine withdrew when he saw Titus turning pink from lack of air. "You ok?" Titus nodded and Caine resumed stroking himself. "Is it ok if I finish?"

"On my face, if you please," Titus said, looking at Caine with a flamboyant show of eagerness. Caine obliged, ejaculating all over Titus' handsome features. When finally finished, Caine stood, cock in hand, admiring his cum on those high cheekbones and cupid lips. It was a very pretty picture. 

Titus stood and waited for Caine to regain his breath. Reaching past Caine to a drawer in the desk, Titus pulled out a silk handkerchief to dab daintily at his face. He offered it to Caine.

"I don't think that's gonna cover it," Caine replied. He was covered in sweat and lube. Basically, a complete mess.

"Hmm, too true," Titus agreed. "Well, you are welcome to use my shower here at the club. Or I could have a driver take you home. As long as you've learned your lesson?"

"Uh, I think so, sir," Caine answered. "If I hang around your table too much during my set, you'll call me back here and fuck me?"

"A _dirty job,_ " Titus mused, with his best _do you even blame me?_ expression, "but _someone_ must do it. Don't you think?"


End file.
